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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 9 months

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Nothing and Everything - Part 1

Summary: Certain times of the year are harder than others. This is the first year where they have all been present to face the memories of all the trauma. How can they come together when they each have their own traumas to face?

When do you call it and admit that you need help?

Especially when help is part of the trauma.

Pairings: Gen fic (they love Layla and she loves them)

Warnings: Heavy dissociation, Mentions of child abuse, some mentions of violence, Depression, mentions of self harm, PTSD, lots of flashbacks.

Word Count: 6340

Part one: Marc has a plan. It's not a very good one. The fallout ripples across the other two.

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Sometimes it was better to be nothing.

An odd sensation. One he was not supposed to like, if he was to believe the books. Disorientating, sluggish, and leaving one unable to process or do anything.

Yet he welcomed it at times. He could feel it coming on and he would embrace that nothing. Floating outside of himself. Outside of time. Outside of the world and all it stood for.

Out here, he didn’t have to be anything. He didn’t have to be Marc Spector.

He didn’t have to be strong. He didn’t have to be grounded. He didn’t have to be a husband. A brother. A son.

He could remember as a child sitting and staring down at his dinner plate. He could remember how the shape of the chicken and rice seemed odd. How the more he stared and tried to make sense of it, the less it became. He stared until the individual rice pieces became lost to him. What was it supposed to be? Where did it exist beyond the plate? It wasn’t real and yet here he was supposed to…do what?

“Why are you such a pain? Why can’t you be normal? Pay attention when I talk to you!”

Crashing down, his world rang out and he felt what might be pain. He was aware of something hitting him. Splashing cold water on him as the cup crashed to the floor. Pain was not external. Pain was crawling out of that nothing. Pain was drowning in the cave. Pain was returning to his body and existence. Pain was the slow blink he forced on himself as he came crashing back to the diner table.

“Go clean yourself up. You disgust me.”

Pain was the man next to him continuing to eat with his eyes down. Pain was struggling to get up and move, wading through a universe that didn’t want him as he made his way to his room.

Sitting down and holding his knees to his chest, he rocked. It helped. It soothed him. The rocking reminded him that he had a body. That he was supposed to be here. That there was someone else that he had to be there for.

There were times when it was beautiful.

Sitting in the temple, listening to the call of the Rabbi, staring at the beautiful art etched across the walls. The Hebrew letters ancient and strange and outside of his time. His father, so proud of how his son would become so moved. How his son would stare upward and rock until tears streamed down his face. It was beautiful out here. Beautiful and free…

Walking home he would stumble. His feet were not his to move yet they had to move.

“Did you enjoy it?”

A voice answered that was not his. If the body was not his, someone had to own it. Someone had to make it move and speak and act. That was well enough for him. He could let Steven have this. Even if it made his father look at him with worry.

“Son. You don’t have to talk like that. You’ve been watching too many documentaries from the BBC.”

He would deal with it later. Let Steven have this. He didn’t want it.

There were times when he would fight it. Times when the call of nothing scared him. When all he wanted to do was exist and he couldn’t.

“Spector! If we don’t move we’re dead!”

He stared down at the bullet shells around him. Glimmering in the sun, golden and charred and dented. He rocked back into the broken wall he was seeking shelter behind. Each thump of his back desperately trying to hold him. Lips moving he clung to reality desperately with each stay stay stay stay stay.

It was what the counselor had told him. Just stay present. Stop drifting. They didn’t understand. It wasn’t day dreaming. Day dreaming was when he pretended he had a loving family at home. When he pretended his mother was at home cooking his favorite meal for him because she loved him. Yet drifting was a word that felt right.

“SPECTOR! MOVE!”

He cracked his head back into the wall and forced himself to his feet, running. He didn’t look where. Was it to safety? Was it to oblivion? He was moving. It was move or die. Gunshots. Metal in his hand. Bodies in the dirt. His own voice angry and firm. “Marc. Wake up.”

No. He didn’t want to. It was fine out here. Why did he need to come out when clearly his body knew what to do. He closed his eyes. He would wake later to find the danger gone. The dirt red and the bullets surrounding him.

“You’re a freak, Spector. A goddamned lucky freak.”

Did the others ever drift? Did they find beauty or comfort in not existing?

Steven hated it. It took away from his time that he could be studying. Or so he said. Honestly, it scared Steven. Steven who had fought so hard for his own sense of self. For his identity. Marc understood why Steven would find the experience disquieting.

Steven would clench his eyes shut and dig his nails into his palms. He would fight it, exhausting himself and pacing the flat in any effort to stay grounded. He took up reading out loud, focusing on each word and saying it to make it real. He would spend hours reading out books on history until his voice gave out. When it was too much, he would throw Marc to the front and bury himself down and down until he could not drift away anymore.

“I don’t know how you do it, mate. It’s horrible. Worse than feeling trapped. Worse than anything.”

And Jake? Jake would not admit to it. There were long stretches at a time when they would not hear a word from Jake. Perhaps that was his strategy. The less he existed the less he could avoid not existing? Marc considered it an interesting problem solve. One he had contemplated in his darkest days as he tried to give his everything to Steven.

Was Jake avoiding them? Was he avoiding life? Was he avoiding having to face what he was?

Marc noticed the ticks. The way Jake moved his hands. The way he tapped his fingers one at a time on his thumb over and over. The way he tapped his leg, looking to outsiders to be an impatient man. The way he walked, always taking extra steps anywhere he went. Steps to be sure to place himself in the perfect position. The way he chose his clothes so carefully, feeling them and pulling them to test their sensations.

No, Jake was not as prone to drifting. Jake was prone to a different problem. Jake felt too much. Too present. Too much sensation. Too much everything. Too much and Jake would leave. His solution to avoid that inner desire to scream and cry until it all stopped.

A vague memory of a melt down in school. When the bell rang and the lunchroom trays crashed and banged and he could hear the rolling carts and laughter and screaming. Marc had drifted away and Steven was nowhere near the surface. It had been too much of everything and Jake had been forced to take front when he least wanted it. Jake hated school. He hated the over stimulation. He hated the sounds and the way he was forced to interact with so many people. People that did not understand him.

Escaping into the bathroom he had locked himself in a stall and punched the wall over and over and over again, feeling the force of his hands on the wall. Listening to the thuds and feeling it rattle his skeleton.

Marc had woken to bloodied and bruised fists. It was a wonder he hadn’t known Jake before. Looking back, he felt bad for all the times he’d force Jake to take a situation that made him want nothing more than to stay down below. He wanted to explain to Jake that it could be different now. That he didn’t need Jake to jump in all the time. That Steven could be there when he wasn’t.

If only he could stay present. If only he could explain to Jake and Steven why it had to be this way. Why they had to suffer. Why he had failed them by just existing.

“Marc?” Layla took his hand and squeezed it so gently. “Are you alright?”

He blinked and gave the smallest of nods. It was the best he could do out here.

He could feel her watching him. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know what it was like to lose oneself to the nothing. How good it felt to not have to be anything with any expectations.

“Can you talk?” She wove her fingers in his and held on.

“Yeah.” Marc pulled himself back down and held on, trying to focus on her. “Just…Having a moment.”

She nodded and sat beside him, leaning into him gently. He could feel the warmth of her body radiating against his own. “Do you mind company?”

He used to hide from her. If he felt himself start to drift he would lock himself away. Pretend to sleep. Anything so she wouldn’t know or suspect how broken he was.

Now there was no use to hiding. She knew. She knew all of it. But she didn’t know the way it could make him feel.

He could send out Steven. She would certainly welcome the company. Jake might even pop up if he was around. Jake didn’t mind the quiet calm she provided. It was hard to tell who was where in this state.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to get out.

“For what?” She leaned her head against his shoulder and he could smell her shampoo.

“Being a mess.” He was slowly being pulled back in. It hurt to let go but it couldn’t last forever. He could already feel the headache setting in.

“You aren’t a mess, Marc.” She looked up at him firmly.

“I cause problems for them. Because of me, Steven has to put up with me... He has a hard enough time feeling recognized and I’m always taking that away from him. And Jake… I put him in these situations. I left him in the crowded underground station during rush hour yesterday. And for you… You having to put up with this.” He pulled away and moved to get up.

She held his hand tightly, pulling him back down. “Marc. You aren’t the reason for this. It’s not your fault that you disassociate. All three of you do it. It isn’t really something you can control. You aren’t the reason Jake doesn’t like crowds or gets overwhelmed. He puts up with it because he cares, but I’ve seen all three of you melt down over different things.”

She smiled and Marc frowned. “Jake is the one with the temper. Steven doesn’t melt down.” Even just saying it he knew it was wrong.

Layla gave him a look. “I moved Steven’s book shelf the other day to get something. I thought Steven was going to have a heart attack. He doesn’t handle change well. Or loss of control. I know now to ask him if I can move things. Ask him to help me if I need to move something. It lets him feel more in control of his situation.”

“It’s my fault.” Marc leaned back. “I had all this before them. Now that I have them, they have to have these problems too.”

“That isn’t how it works and you know it.” She scoffed. “As far as I understand it, there is no ‘before them’ when it comes to this stuff. You all have the same problem because that’s just how it works. You all just handle it differently.”

No before. Marc wasn’t sure about before. Who was he before Steven and Jake? Was he himself or was he all of them? Was he no one? Perhaps they were there first and he came later, crawling out of the desert leaving behind blood soaked sand filled with memories of pain and suffering.

Thinking about it like that made him dizzy. Was he born in the desert? What if Jake and Steven had always been and he was the one that came out just to cause them pain and suffering? Soaked in sweat and blood and grime to reflect the inside of his very soul.

He forced a little headshake to be rid of the thought. He knew better. He had been around since the earlier years. He remembered the snap of the belt. If anything, that was his proof of existence.

Layla squeezed his hand when she noticed him frowning harder than normal. Thinking about his very existence was more than he could handle. He jolted a little and forced himself to squeeze her hand back, though it was weak.

“Do you think you were happier before you knew all of this?” Marc leaned back and looked up at her. “When you thought I was just some normal man?”

“You were never normal.” Layla smiled teasingly and brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You were a bottled up shell of a person that stared at me way too long and hard every time I looked at you. I fell for you because of the real you I would see now and then. You thought you were so clever and sneaky but I knew there was something.”

“You probably weren’t expecting this much of a mess though.” Marc smiled back at her and laughed to himself.

She shrugged. “Worst case I thought you had another wife and kids somewhere. Just turns out you were three people in a trench coat.”

“Might still have a wife and kids somewhere.” It was Marc’s turn to give her the teasing look. “I mean, no one knows what Jake gets up to all the time.”

“That is Jake’s business.” Layla shrugged. “And he would tell me if he did. He isn’t trouble like you are.”

“Jake doesn’t tell you everything.” Marc frowned.

Layla smiled and sat back. “He doesn’t tell you everything. I’m his gossip buddy.”

“His what?” Marc sat up. “What does that even mean?”

She zipped her lips and smiled. “Relax, Marc. You have nothing to worry about. Jake is my sort of gauge on how you’re doing as a whole. I help him relax and he lets me know when there are things to worry about.”

“Things to worry about.” Marc crossed his arms. “So he’s like a snitch? I would have thought Steven would be the snitch out of all us. What sort of things does he tell you?”

“He is not a snitch.” She frowned at him. “And I’ll have you know that Steven is the most trustworthy of the three of you to hold a secret.” She relaxed again, though he could tell she was mildly irritated. “Steven tells me if he has concerns. If he thinks there’s trouble or danger. He tells me if he’s having an off day. He thinks it is important to keep me in the loop, but he also doesn’t go into detail if he is fronting because of problems. Jake tells me if he is fronting because of necessity or because he wants to. There is a difference. An important one.”

Marc looked away. He shared front most often with Steven. Steven was the easiest to switch with and often found it fun to sit with him as co-driver. It was a puzzle that Steven just couldn’t help but hack away at and be the best at. If Steven took over by force it was with good reason, but he knew Steven would never broadcast it.

Marc had the hardest time switching with Jake. Jake often came to front after Steven. It seemed smoother and less jarring. If he and Jake tried to switch out on purpose there was always a delay. A delay that ran the risk of letting him drift. Not to mention the amnesic barrier that seemed to always sit between him and Jake. If Jake pulled front by force then it was usually a very bad day for a number of potential reasons.

Reasons Marc didn’t want to think about. Reasons that Jake kept from him at times. Or perhaps reasons that Marc himself refused to see.

Layla sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Marc stared up at the ceiling, resting his head back against the couch in a position that was sure to strain his neck if he waited too long.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” Marc closed his eyes for a moment and felt the world shift. “I just… I wish you’d see…”

“What do you want me to see Marc?” She sat forward and looked at him fully, the frustration on her face easy to see. “I don’t like it when you are so hard on yourself. You know I can’t agree with you when you talk like this. I love you too much to hear any sort of hateful speech about you, no matter who it is from.”

He couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t want to argue with Layla and he could not explain it to her. How could he? He couldn’t explain it to himself. He didn’t know who was closer to the front, but one of them would step in. He let go and fell to the back. He didn’t even want to be aware of what was going on. Especially since he was certain it was not going to be an easy transition.

He would apologize later. He was always apologizing later.

Steven groaned and scrunched up his face as the world swam into focus. “Oh bloody hell.” He took a slow breath and let himself focus in on his surroundings slowly. “M’alright.”

“Great.” Layla sighed and struggled to reign in her frustration. “Hey, Steven.”

“Hmm.” He smiled as he focused in on her face. The smile faltered as he noticed her look of utter irritation. “Sorry. What did I miss? Is everything alright?”

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault.” She took his hand and squeezed it gently. “Marc has been in and out all day. I made the mistake of pushing him. I thought maybe he just needed some company or something to ground him. He pushed back. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Then he just throws you out when I call him on his own B.S.”

“Oh.” Steven squeezes her hand firmly then frowns. “Are you mad at him?” Steven was the peace keeper. He did his best to keep everyone happy. To make sure no one felt left out.

He had been the first to bridge the gap between Marc and Jake. The first to open communication between Layla and Jake. He kept everyone in the loop.

Even now, he was fishing inside for the general sense of wellbeing. Marc snapped back and pulled away, effectively slamming the door on him.

“No.” Layla crossed her arms and looked up at the ceiling, taking a few deep breaths. She tried to contain her emotions at times. She hated to think that any arguments or problems would carry over to her feelings on someone else that wasn’t involved.

Sometimes it was hard.

Sometimes Marc shut her out and she turned a cold shoulder to Steven because she needed someone to know she was upset. She knew she had snapped at Jake more than once when the realities of the situation became too heavy for her to hold up.

“Yes.” She sighed and forced herself to take his hand. The same fingers, the same warmth, yet a lighter and more delicate hold. “He’s been a mess all day and I don’t know how to help him. He won’t let me help him.”

Steven nodded. “I think we’re just having a day.”

“What does that mean?” She looked at him, desperate to know. “A day? A day of what? Is he depressed? Is he upset? Does he need space? Should I trust him with space?”

Steven scrunched up his face and rubbed his temple. The headache was starting to pound. It was hard for him to know if this was what had set off Marc or if the headache was a result of Marc being set off.

“No. Nothing like that. He’s… He’ll be fine.” Steven did not have a poker face. When his world spun, he reached inside again. “I’m sorry, Love. I feel terrible. I’d like to go lay down for a bit, if that’s alright?”

Layla looked at him with concern then nodded. “Of course.”

She watched him get up and wander to the bed, flopping back as he pulled the blankets around himself like a cocoon.

“Do you want anything? Some aspirin? Water?” She tried to help. Wanted to help. Needed to help.

Steven made a sound and curled up tighter, rolling up in the blanket till all she could see was a few stray curls poking out of the top.

“Alright. Just let me know if you need anything.” She moved to fill a glass of water and set it on the bedside table.

He would be in bed for the next several hours. Marc had pushed too hard and now it was like he had dug his finger into the brain and clawed at it like an animal trying to escape. All that was left was for Steven to cling to it like a tether.

Sometimes things spilled over. More than headaches and spinning into the nothing.

Sometimes emotions carried through them. Sudden bouts of anxiety could pierce them, making the heart pound as adrenalin shot through them like a live wire.

Steven was prone to the anxiety attacks. Worry about life. About the body. About his headmates. About Layla. About the relationship. About his job. About existing.

Marc coasted over the anxiety like nothing. He was used to adrenalin. His face neutral, he would take a breath and focus like only Marc Spector could, holding down the fort like a man that had never known how to relax a day in his life.

Anger was an emotion that sometimes scared Steven. He hadn’t realized he had the capacity until he learned about his headmates. Marc was filled with anger. He held it all back until he blew up. Steven would often blow up right along with him, unable to hold on.

Jake knew anger. Jake had known rage and learned how to harness it. When the anger became destructive, Jake could pull it in and use the fuel to get things done. Jake was never more productive than when the anger simmered over into a boil.

Steven wondered what emotion Jake brought to the table. Then again, Steven also often found himself crying for no reason. There were times when the tears would flow down his face without any reason.

Marc was not connected to this overflow. When the sadness was too much inside, Marc disconnected. It made Steven wonder who of them was really feeling it. His own connection with Jake left him with suspicions but he was too afraid to ask.

Steven had asked Jake once if it had always just been the three of them. He wondered about time spans in their life that neither he or Marc seemed to have. Had Jake been that active once?

The one with those memories isn’t around anymore.

It scared him. To know that someone had once been there and was simply not anything anymore. Not death and not sleeping. Just… Not. Not aware? Lost in the void? Sitting quietly alone somewhere and feeling free from the mess that existed around them?

Then again, he himself had such large gaps in his memory that perhaps he had simply not been anything for a while too.

Steven curled up tighter and pulled the blanket down until it was stuffy and hot.

How many had come and gone? How many were simply lurking and staying quiet? How many knew things that were forbidden?

Marc was prone to flashbacks. They usually came at night. Sometimes set off by sounds and sometimes by weather. Rain often clenched at his heart till Steven slipped in.

Yet one of them had started waking the body up late at night screaming. Emotions so overblown and painful that Steven would blindly step in and catch the tail end of pure terror. Flashes of something he couldn’t see. Sounds from the past that deafened them until the world was a buzz.

Marc denied these attacks. He had no recollection of them. Jake seemed tight lipped and frustrated by these break through attacks, but he assured Steven it wasn’t from him.

Someone in the system was distressed.

I don’t know who you are, and it’s okay if you want to stay hidden…. But you need to know that you aren’t alone. You are safe here. We’re here for you.

He called out. Into the dark. Into the void. Into the inner space.

You are safe.

“Steven?”

He jumped and sat up. How long had he been in bed? Was it still day? What day was it?

A fear often struck him that one day he might close his eyes and open them years later to find everything different yet to him no time at all.

He looked around, trying to find context clues till his eyes settled on Layla.

“Are you feeling any better?” She sat on the edge of the bed, a soft and hopeful smile hiding her worry.

“How long was I out?”

“Just a couple of hours.” She glanced to the side where she had set a fresh cup of tea.

Steven smiled and adjusted himself till he was comfortable then took the cup of tea carefully. It was still hot and smelled wonderful and strong.

Layla always made a strong cup of anything she brewed. Marc swore that Layla could raise the dead with her coffee. Jake had gotten a taste for it and they now had rules in place on when and how much he could drink.

Steven stared down into the dark water, hands clutching the cup as he let the heat radiate outwards to warm him. He could pretend that it reached into his very soul and set fire to his hearth, then perhaps Marc and Jake could feel it too and they could gather around the glow.

“Are you alright?” Layla leaned down so she could peer at his face under the mess of curls.

It was then that Steven felt the tears drip off his chin to splash down into the tea.

He managed a nod and wiped a cheek on his sleeve. He sipped the tea, now laced in sadness. It was bitter, but not unpleasantly so.

“We’re a mess today, huh?” He mumbled.

“Everyone has bad days.” She smiled softly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” Steven didn’t like talking about things that were not his own. If Marc needed space, he would give it. If things got out of hand, he would intervene. It was his place to trust Marc. To trust the others.

Let me talk to her.

Steven frowned. Jake did not give space. Jake was often blunt and always analyzing a situation.

“Let me finish my tea.” Steven suddenly felt stubborn and sour. Jake didn’t like tea and had let Steven take the brunt of the headache earlier when he had been just as close to the front when Marc bailed.

The look in Layla’s eyes meant she knew Jake was trying to front. Like watching someone waiting for a friend at the airport. He would come with news and a smile.

Steven was just in the way now. A stand in between her and the functionings of something she wanted to know… But did she need to know?

He sipped the tea again, less careful this time as he burned his lips a little.

Steven.

It was a warning. Jake knew that Steven hated being spoken down to. Hated being looked at as incapable. He wanted to handle it. He could handle it. He always handled it.

“Not now.” Steven snapped and moved to get out of the bed as if he could possibly put distance between him and the thing in his head that was annoying him.

Steven. Let go.

Jake could pull him. He could pull Marc easily in the worst of times. Yet they all knew that Steven could put up a fight. If Steven didn’t want to go, he would fight and no one would come out of it unscathed.

It was only kindness to them all that Jake asked. Normally Steven obliged. Jake didn’t ask for front a lot. Sometimes he was thrust into it, sometimes he took it by force, and sometimes he just slipped in. Usually when Jake asked, Steven was more than happy to step aside. He knew what it was to be pushed back when scared and alone… Begging to have control of his life…

He burned his mouth on the tea and winced as he felt the scald run down his throat to sit in his stomach like a hot coal. The cup of tea sloshed over his hand before he set it down on the side table.

“Fuck!” Jake moved to the bathroom and quickly cupped his hand under the cold water then moved to guzzle it, putting out the fire inside.

I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Oh god! Are we okay?

Jake sighed as he felt the damage, his tongue raw and the roof of his mouth nicely seared. That would be a lovely annoyance for the next week. His hand was only mildly burned and at least would be fine by tomorrow.

He looked up to find Layla behind him in the mirror, her eyes full of concern.

“We’re okay.” An answer to her and Steven.

He let out a heavy sigh, feeling himself settle in as the air left him. Almost like he was forcing out the remnants of the other two. Inhaling slowly, he filled with his own troubles.

“We aren’t okay.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face before turning back to face Layla fully.

“It’s the change of the season. The end of summer as the rains start to hit.” Jake glanced at the window, watching the sun casting lingering shadows at low angles. “A bad time of year for us… A lot of bad memories… A lot of regrets. Loss…”

The sun was no longer golden and warm. It was hot and unloving. The night would stretch on and the pounding on the door would get louder. Tears at night soaked through pillows and night terrors left dark circles under eyes.

The first rain would flash flood, unable to soak into the too dry ground fast enough. Dark grays like her sweater, coarse and painful in a hug full of lies and promises.

He would see his father’s sad face in the windows he passed. Unknown to him in his age, no longer the strong and happy man he had known. He would hear him begging to stay as he walked away.

And the screams…

Jake clenched his eyes shut for a moment, willing the memories away before they overwhelmed him and flooded through. Steven was already too close and getting emotional carry over. He didn’t need the nightmares too. One of them needed to be able to sleep at night.

Marc knew the nightmares were coming. Like clockwork he knew the depression would slide in to poison his mind and drag him down.

But this was the first year that they were all aware of one another.

This was the first time that Marc knew he didn’t have to be present. That perhaps…

“Fucking bastard is trying to dissociate his way through it.” Jake groaned and moved to slump back on the couch.

“What’s that?” Layla settled in next to him.

“This is our first year being… We.” He struggled to explain. “Aware. The first time we’ve known about each other. In the past, Marc fought through it. Held his ground and got depressed and… You know. You were there for a lot of it.”

Layla looked thoughtful for a moment. “I used to think it was seasonal affective disorder.” She tilted her head as she chased a memory.

“I bought him one of those sun lamps that are supposed to improve your mood.” She sighed. “I don’t think it helped at all. I thought it was weird that his depression started in so much earlier than most people.”

Jake gave her a small smile, trying to imagine Marc sitting in front of the lamp dutifully every day while Layla watched, knowing that it wasn’t going to help.

“He doesn’t have to hold his ground anymore. He doesn’t want to be present for it.” Jake shook his head at the cleverness that was both impressive and also so utterly infuriating.

“You mean like hibernation?” Layla looked startled. “He’s just going to… What? Sleep all season? I’ll see him in the spring?”

He would try to be a grumpy bear, wouldn’t he? Steven grumbled from the back. He was still keeping his distance, feeling ashamed for burning them.

Jake leaned on his hand, covering up a smile at that. “Marc wishes he could go into hibernation. It doesn’t work that way. He might try to front less�� But he is still going to be affected. He’s trying to detach himself from the moment. If he’s stuck in the moment, he might even try to force us to switch. Give us reason to pull him.”

Leave it to Marc to come up with a way to use his D.I.D to try to get out of his feelings instead of trying to face them.

Layla was quiet for a moment then looked down. “It’s not a bad idea… Maybe we should let him. Is it so wrong to help him not suffer?”

Jake sank further back into the couch till even Steven was complaining about the posture.

Jake please, our back!

He remembered the feeling of helplessness. The feeling of sitting in a chair as the sedation washed over them. The feel of the body being numb and heavy. The struggle to even look up and see who was talking.

Jake had hated every moment of it. Every moment of helplessness. The sensation of nothing. Of being locked out.

But not Marc… Marc had loved it. The feeling of not having to do anything. He loved the way he didn’t have to think.

It was any wonder that Marc developed a drinking problem after that. Desperately trying to recreate the numbness.

It was only out of pure will that they had managed to avoid diving into deeper and more damaging things.

“It doesn’t work like that. You can’t control things like that. Our system is actually pretty delicate. All three of us…” He paused here, not used to including himself in these admissions. “We’re all in a pretty delicate balance. He can’t just pretend he isn’t here for half the year.”

“What one does, the others have to deal with too.” Layla frowned then looked down at Jake. She reached out and gently gripped his arm, pulling him back up into a better posture to spare their back. “Marc might be fine, but the other two would suffer…”

Steven perked up at that. The nightmares… Are they yours?

Jake leaned into Layla lightly, laying a hand over hers to keep her touch there a moment longer. “Steven would be happy to run the show, I’m sure. Pretending that we didn’t exist. Living like he did before he knew…”

Steven protested, but half heartedly. He knew the truth and couldn’t hide it. How easy it would be to pretend he was normal. He would be sad at first, missing the company. But how many times did he wake up in the morning and call out, wondering if it was all just a dream? Would it be possible for denial to kick in and make him forget? Would it be hard to give up control again in the spring?

Even without the denial, the loneliness felt like a pit deep inside and it terrified him.

“I don’t think Steven would be very happy alone.” Layla looked down at Jake’s trembling hand that clung to hers. He hadn’t even realized how tightly he had been clinging. “I don’t think any of you want to or should be alone.”

She lay her head against his shoulder and gently wrapped her free arm around his waist.

“I’m sorry.” Jake or Steven mumbled. They didn’t know who was in front. Steven had always blended easily with the others. Even before he knew about the others. It was easy for Marc of Jake to mesh with Steven. His strength had always been to hold them up and together.

“It’s okay…” She whispered as she squeezed his hand. Steven loved to be held. Jake loved to be leaned into. Marc loved to do the holding. “I’ll be here for you.”

Tears ran down their cheeks again, flowing into streams like a flash flood. Steven felt his heart clench in anxiety and Jake pushed back a memory.

Someone inside was so sad that it threatened to drown them all.

You’re okay. You’re safe now.

He cried out into the emptiness.

Jake’s hand squeezed Layla’s till he slipped back and let Steven have the front again.

At what point would it not be enough to be reassured? At what point would it be too much to exist? Sometimes it was so nice to not be.

Jake wished he could feel it too. The way Marc did… The free float of nothing. Instead, he was trapped here in the sarcophagus pounding his fists against the solid wood, feeling everything.

---

Part Two HERE

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight fic #Marc Spector #Steven Grant #Jake Lockley #Layla El Faouly #Hey look I still write fic #Been a while #I've been working on this one for months #This fic is going to be heavy - you have been warned #Depression is a hell of a thing #Update schedule is going to vary and I'm sorry about that #Welcome to fall everyone!

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spaceorphan18 · 2 years

Text

The Spaces In-Between: Chapter 9

TITLE: The Spaces In-Between RATING: M PAIRINGS: Eventually Kurt/Blaine, unrequited Kurt/Finn ADDITIONAL TAGS: All the tags! Mostly slowburn romance and friendship SUMMARY: The story of Kurt Hummel’s life in the spaces between what we saw on the show – goes through the entire series, and follows his adventures throughout, including falling in love with Blaine, his friendships with Mercedes and Rachel, and his relationship with his dad.

Thanks to @lallagoglee for the wonderful cover art! <3

***

Chapter 9: Dancing With Myself

“It’s so goddamn annoying how that girl gets everything handed to her on a silver platter.” Mercedes Jones slams her lunch tray down next to his, sitting with a flop in the seat.

Kurt understands her frustration. Really, he does. Most of the time, he concedes. Because it’s Rachel Berry. Because he knows her talent and knows that she’ll steamroll anyone in her path. And he doesn’t really want to be in her path when she blows through. But this time? This time feels different.

Mercedes is seething next to him. She gets it. How long have they commiserated about the same thing? About how Mr. Schuester routinely puts Rachel front and center at the expense of everyone else? He knows Mercedes would have been great with the song -- he’s heard her sing Broadway numbers. He knows she has the chops for it. But this song? This song is more personal.

He chews a French fry slowly, as Mercedes continues to rattle off the egregious crimes Rachel has committed over the past few months. Normally, he’ll jump in and agree with her. They’ve had hours long phone conversations about how they could grab the spotlight from her. It’s always just talk, though. Anger usually dissipates into laughter, and then it’s onto celebrity gossip and fashion ideas as Rachel fades into the back recess of his mind.

He can’t help but stare at her, though, from across the room. She’s sitting at the same table as Artie and Tina, though a good chair length away so that, really, she’s sitting by herself. She’s dreamily looking to the table next to her, staring at Finn who is laughing with some other jocks Kurt recognizes from the football team. It’s all somewhat pitiful - the way she keeps trying to meet his gaze. There have been times when Kurt has felt sorry for her - when Kurt has understood the type of person she is. But there’s an energy buzzing under his skin, and he can’t help his contempt.

Why does she automatically get the song? Why is it that because she’s what society deems as normal there isn’t even a discussion as to whether or not he’d be allowed to sing the song? It makes him so unbelievably angry that he doesn’t quite know what to do with his aggression. He won’t take it out on Mercedes, she doesn’t deserve that. But god, he just can’t sit there and do nothing.

“I’m going to challenge it,” Kurt says - his voice a scratchy whisper at first, as if he is testing out the words to see how they sound.

Mercedes gives him a shocked look. “Wait, what? I tried that - remember? And shot me down immediately.”

“Yes, but I’m really going to challenge it,” Kurt’s more assured now - knowing that the next time they have glee club - he’s going to put himself out there. He’s going to take down Rachel Berry. “I want to sing that song. I have to sing that song. I’m not going to give up the fight.”

Mercedes is impressed, though she shakes her head. “You know I’ve always got your back, but don’t go expecting too much. You try to take something from Rachel Berry - she’ll fight back.”

Kurt takes a deep breath in. He understands. He deeply understands.

***

Kurt’s on his bed, lying on his back, earbuds in, staring at the ceiling as he listens to the music he’s heard so many times before that he could sing the lyrics in his sleep. Wicked has been one of those magical moments in his life -- discovering that musicals can be more than just delicate romances and quirky situations. That musicals can mean something. That characters and music and words can all mean something.

It’s not just a song. It’s not just a song that he’s able to sing despite being well out of the range of most male vocalists. It’s that he feels the song in his bones.

Over the years, he’s held himself back too often for too much. He’s been so scared of taking that leap, too afraid that he’d crash and burn that he didn’t never considered the possibility of what it would feel like to really fly.

The music encourages him -- flows through his veins as if it’s his life blood. He’s restless with an energy that he’s never quite known before.

He’s going to sing that song -- Mr. Schue and Rachel be damned.

Downstairs, he hears the front door shut. He hears the clunky sound of his dad’s boots as he climbs the stairs. There’s a quiet knock on his door.

Kurt sits up, as his dad’s peers into the room. Burt’s tense, his jaw working. Kurt’s stomach turns a little, as he knows his dad has just come back from the school.

“Uh, I talked to your teachers,” his dad says. He knows his dad is a little out of his league on this one but he’s trying. Thank god, his dad is really trying for him. “They’re going to let you audition.”

Kurt’s lips twitch into a contained smile. His happiness swells with the music he’s listening to. “Thank you.”

***

They leave the gymnasium, arms around each other, doubling over in laughter. Kurt cannot believe they just auditioned to be on Cheerios. The Cheerios!! Not that he or Mercedes had been serious about joining. It wouldn’t have ever occurred to him if Ms. Sylvester hadn’t been halfway decent when she coached them last week - or if Mr. Schue would just listen to their pleas and let them shine for once. Honestly, he would probably make a terrible cheerleader. But man, that had been fun.

They’re not two feet down the hallway when they’re met by Santana and Brittany, arms linked tightly together, blocking their way. Kurt’s face falls - it’s never something good when the two of them are together. Mercedes straightens herself, standing slightly in front of him, almost protectively.

“So, I’ve never pegged either of you as the athletic type, but wow, that was quite the display. I can honestly say that I thoroughly enjoyed what I saw,” Santana says, a thick sarcasm in her voice. Kurt clenches his jaw. Mercedes is about to speak when Santana holds up a finger, wiggling it back and forth. “No, let me speak before I decide this is a bad idea. Here’s the thing, Kurt - one, tiny, gay baby step for you means a push forward for the rest of us.”

Kurt and Mercedes exchange looks. What in the world is she talking about?

Santana delights at their confusion. “Look, it’s about time the two of you started to take initiative. It really should be a joint effort in taking Rachel Berry down. First - it will be you, Kurt, with an obnoxious Broadway standard locking into place his future as drag queen supreme--”

“I have no intention--”

“And then, Mercedes will finally be able to do more than belt out the last note in a song that aging baby boomers got tired of listening to ten years ago.”

“Santana, what--”

“And then, finally, it will be my turn.”

Oh. Of course.

Santana stares at Kurt, firmly, a look of intensity behind her forced smile. “So, here’s the thing Kurt - you’re going to do great at that audition. And I am going to vote for you. And I’m going to make sure others vote for you, too. Because a vote for you means a vote for not having to listen to Rachel Berry screech while I sway in the background for the next three years. Got it?”

“It’s supposed to be about who is best, Santana,” Mercedes reminds her. Kurt knows she supports him. But he also knows she likes to play fair.

“Yes, and playing fair means that Rachel doesn’t get all the solos. Right?”

Kurt gives Mercedes a look. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it - Santana does have a point. He doesn’t have a rebuttal, not one that would be very believable anyway. He just stands there, his arms hugging his chest, looking slightly away, as if thinking over her words.

“I just want to hear you sing,” Brittany says. She reaches out and manages to stroke his cheek before he’s able to back away. “Maybe we’ll even get to duet soon.”

Mercedes shakes her head, and looks over to him. “Duet?”

His stomach churns a little. Santana throws her head back in laughter as they turn to walk away.

***

“So, the plan is after school, we’re all meeting in the home ec room to finish up the rest of the baked goods,” Artie says at lunch the next day. “Apparently, Puck has his old Nana Connie’s recipe that is going to be killer and will surely be what really gets these cupcakes moving.”

“Is this something we should be suspicious of?” Mercedes inquires.

“It’s P-p-puck,” Tina replies with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t even want to know what this special secret ingredient.”

Kurt’s not fully paying attention to the conversation. He’s too busy watching Rachel and Finn, huddled together, in deep discussion about something. Rachel smiles meekly. Finn puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. They both lean into a hug, though awkward while both sitting in wheelchairs. Kurt can’t help but feel a little jealousy boil up.

“I’m not going to be able to make it tonight,” he says. He turns his attention back to the group, not wanting to witness whatever that was any longer. “I’m going to have to practice if I’m going to be perfect tomorrow.”

Artie and Tina exchange looks. “K-k-kurt - are you sure this is a good idea?” Tina asks. “I mean, I completely buckled when Mr. Schue tried to give me Tonight. Just the pressure of knowing Rachel would be after me was too much.”

“Maybe,” Kurt says, though he isn’t really considering her words. “But was Tonight something you felt in your bones, Tina? Was that song something you knew deep down that if you didn’t perform then you’d just implode from how much it’s eating at your insides to get out?”

Artie stuffs some chips into his mouth, amused at Kurt’s ambition. “Well - you’re definitely going to meet her passion. But, c’mon Kurt, you know she has had training since she was a small child. You know we’d all vote for you in a heartbeat. But if you’re sincere in your wish for making it fair…” He scrunches his nose before finishing the thought.

“Kurt’s gonna do just fine,” Mercedes says, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.

He smiles warmly. “I’m going to be more than fine,” he says. He looks back up to where Rachel and Finn are seated together. They’re laughing now, Rachel playfully throwing a napkin in his face. “I’m going to knock her down so hard, she won’t know what hit her.”

Everyone sits back at his intensity. But he feels how he feels.

***

The morning of the challenge, Kurt’s feeling unusually jittery. He gets up early, and heads to the school, wanting to practice just a little bit more before school starts.

It’s dark outside, and quiet, and as he heads to school, as he rehearses the lyrics in his head and hums the melody to himself, he can’t help but picture his dad in his head. The look of anger after that phone call the previous night. The look of sadness, of helplessness. Singing this song was supposed to be about him - about how he’d defy expectations and prove them all wrong. But for his dad, it’s just another reminder that his son’s struggle is his own.

And he doesn’t want to see his dad struggle. Not after everything they’ve been through.

Not when they’re just starting to get close again.

He’s able to use the choir room to practice. There’s something peaceful about being there before the school fully wakes up. Just him, and the piano, and his own voice filling the space. Despite the nerves, he’s able to sing through the song. He hits those high notes perfectly - just has he had the night before. He doesn’t doubt his ability to sing the song. He doesn’t doubt his ability to prove that Rachel isn’t the only one who deserves a moment in the spotlight.

Still, he can’t help but see his dad’s worried face.

He’s out and he’s proud of who he is - and who he is becoming. He’s internalized the song so hard because he’s finally embracing that he doesn’t have to fit into the boxes everyone else sets for him. But maybe it’s not just about him. Maybe he needs to be there for his dad just as his dad is there for him. Maybe - just because he can doesn’t mean he should.

He wants to beat Rachel. He so badly wants to beat her and prove to Mr. Schue - prove to all of them - what he can do.

He sings through the song again - more confidently, letting the music flow through him. He can definitely do this. But should he?

It’s a hard decision.

***

“Good luck, Kurt,” Matt gives him a pat on the back as he enters the choir room. Matt’s barely ever spoken to him, but the guy is all smiles.

“We’re rooting for ya,” Mike comes in next. He’s oddly supportive, too.

Santana enters, grinning wildly. “Don’t blow this,” she warns smugly before taking her seat next to Brittany.

If he hadn’t been so nervous, if the weight of his decision didn’t feel so heavy - he’d wonder if they were voting for him because they believed in him - or if they just wanted Rachel Berry to lose.

He settles on a stool as the others filter in.

Quinn approaches him, a quiet tenseness held inside as she moves towards him. She stares him straight in the eye. “Just beat her, okay?” Kurt’s unsure of how to respond, but she’s moved past before he can.

Mercedes comes in, eyes him giddily. “I’m so excited for you.”

She can sense that he’s nervous, and holds his hand for comfort. He’s not scared of Rachel Berry, however, not anymore. He’s scared that winning might be as damning as losing. As he takes a deep breath, he still hasn’t decided which way he’s going to go.

***

The thing about performing is that when you get into a song -- like really, really get into the song, it envelopes you. Everything else fades away - the world is no longer there and it’s just you and the music.

There’s no audience watching him - no Mr. Schue judging his style, his technique. No Santana with her smug looks, or Mercedes with her hopeful smile, or Finn with his confused interest. No Rachel Berry waiting for him to finish, slyly watching every move he makes, every curve of pitch, every stylistic choice. Just him. Just the music.

And just an understanding that no matter what happens, at the end of the day, he is still him. He knows who he is now, and knows what he can do, and that’s enough.

He’s defied gravity for himself. And at the end of the day - that’s all that really matters.

***

Time slows all the way down. The song is coming to its end.

And he knows in his heart which way he’s going to go.

He loves the thrill of performance. Loves that he can sing this song in all its glory. Loves that there is a whole group of people who are on his side this time. Loves that Rachel Berry, by the look of her, has been shaken to her core. He loves it all.

But he loves his dad more.

And this one is for him.

***

Afterwards, he goes on autopilot.

Rachel sings her version, and she sings it well. He comes to a peace with the inevitability that her win will cement her place as reigning soloist of the group. His anger from earlier in the week has entirely dissipated.

Santana sneers at him. Mercedes shares a look of support. There’s a sense of disappointment throughout the room, even as Finn stands up and cheers as Rachel hits those final notes.

But he doesn’t regret his decision.

And when he walks into the tire shop that evening, his dad a proud look on his face as he enters, he knows that for himself, it had been the right one.

#s.o. writes things #the spaces in between #kurt hummel #kurt hummel fic #hey look i finally updated this!!#also found on ao3 #the great glee rewatch

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